


This Breaking Is Taking Me Down

by AgenderMaine (AngelusErrare)



Series: let's go/yes/no/hell no [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Multi, Other, Past Relationship(s), Polyamorous relationship, Polyamory, THERE ARE NO HAPPY ENDINGS HERE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelusErrare/pseuds/AgenderMaine
Summary: Siris had his reasons for staying behind. Four years later, he still regrets it.title:Runnin'by Adam Lambert





	This Breaking Is Taking Me Down

"Dad?"

 

Mason looks up from the empty glass too slowly, wondering when he emptied it and how long his oldest has been standing in the kitchen doorway watching him. She's frowning, face pulled tight with concern and upset and _damn_ , he thought she'd gone to bed hours ago.

As if knowing what he's thinking, Malia says, "I couldn't sleep."

He nods in understanding, head fuzzy. And he knows it's not the whiskey, knows he's not a problem drinker yet. It's the same distant, fuzzy sense of disconnect he falls into sometimes after flashbacks to the bomb, to the searing agony that rent bone from body and cost him a leg.

Dissociation sucks.

Dissociation over something other than PTSD sucks even more, because at least the bomb and the leg and the pain and the fear is something he's used to, knows how to handle. This is...

He's lost friends and partners before. It's unavoidable in the army, with death always a heartbeat away, but at least that loss was known, was a body and a coffin and an empty space in the mess, not--

not walking away.

 

Four years. No call, no email, no comms, no message of any kind. No sign that they're even still out there.

He sends out a ping every week, in between small jobs. Little things; body guard, rescue, bounty after bounty after bounty. He's got bruised ribs from not having someone there to watch his back if he needs it. He doesn't mention that in any of his messages.

He's not sure if their numbers even work anymore.

If he could be certain they were dead, this would hurt so much less. He could mourn-- _they_ could mourn, he and Megan and Malia and her little siblings. They could mourn, and the hurt would still hurt but it would be a _known_ hurt, a familiar kind of pain and loss he knew how to cope with.

... A kind of loss he could cope with without alcohol.

"It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. Of course it isn't, but he's talking about the drink, not the memories. "Just one glass."

Malia is the too-perceptive daughter of a merce-- _bounty hunter_ and a nurse, and even at fourteen she has a knack for calling his bullshit. "That bottle was full this morning."

"It was a big glass."

"That's not good."

"I know."

He stands, wincing at the momentary phantom pain in his stump even with the body-warmed metal taking the place of his missing leg. His movement is more fluid than it should be, but the steel is not quiet on the hardwood floor no matter how carefully he steps. Washing the glass out in the sink, he lets the warm water wash over his hands, soothing the aching emptiness in his chest.

When he sets the glass in the rack and turns back to her, Malia is frowning again.

"You're crying."

Blinking in surprise, he touches fingertips to his face, finds the warm wet salty tracks of water on his cheeks. Realizes he's practically soaked.

He wipes at his cheeks with the back of a hand, sighing at the faint smell of alcohol on his skin. This is why he shouldn't be drinking alone.

"I miss them," he admits, leaning back against the granite counter.

“We all do,” his daughter replies, scrutinizing him. “Are you ever gonna tell us where they went? What job was so big they had to leave for _years_?”

“It’s off-planet,” Mason evades, not quite meeting her eyes. “Pretty far.”

“Then why not contact you?”

A grimace, a sigh, a feeling like smothering in smoke and shadow and uncertainty. “It’s a dangerous job.”

“Most of them are,” Malia says dryly, crossing her arms. She’s too much like her mother, so easily able to read him and cut through any untruth. He would never lie to her, but this not giving all the truth is too easy for her to see through. “Why didn’t you go?”

Because he has morals. Because he can’t be away from his family for that long, can’t leave them unprotected, can’t bear the thought of losing them. Because they don’t need his help for this. Because he wouldn’t _give_ his help for this. 

Because _planetary genocide_ goes far beyond bounty hunter, far beyond even mercenary, and deep into territory in which he dare not tread. He could adapt to doing more than just bounty hunting; kill a corrupt politician or two, guard a man of questionable moral standing from assassination-- he’d even be willing to fight another war, if he thought the cause was just. But what they’re doing now goes so far past just _war_ he doesn’t have words for it.

 _”Hell, your kids could probably live their lives without ever needing to get a job. Doesn’t that interest you even a_ little _bit?_ ”*

It had. Of course it had; he’s a father, for fuck’s sake! He would give almost anything for his kids to never have to worry about keeping a roof over their heads, or struggling to pay for college, or paying for fucking _anything_ , but there are fucking _lines,_ Gates! Lines he cannot, _will not_ cross even for the benefit of his family, even if it means living job to job, paycheck to paycheck for the rest of his fucking life just to take care of them!

This uncertainty, this slow breaking heart over not having them is just the price he as to pay for not following them, for not being there for him even though he promised he always would. He almost left once, almost cost him everything with them and probably would have cost their lives. He shouldn’t have left then.

 

_They’re the ones who left. All I did was walk away._

It’s as good as leaving.

 

“Someone had to stay,” he finally responds, and it’s not a lie, not really, but it definitely isn’t anywhere near the truth or what she’s asking. She knows it. They both know it.

But she lets it slide.

“Try not to get too drunk,” Malia murmurs, closing the short distance between them and giving him a tight hug. She’s shorter than him for now, but she’s only fourteen; she’ll grow up tall and beautiful just like her mother, all hips and smiles and shimmering brown eyes that will steal his heart every time he hugs her good night. 

This is why he stayed, his family, his life, his everything. He kisses the top of her head just before she pulls back, feeling the prickling of tears in his eyes. “Sleep well, Malia,” he whispers, and her smile is sad but understanding.

“You too, Dad.”

 

  
He eyes his phone once the creak of floorboards above tells him she’s back in her room.

 

Grabs it. Pulls up a number, the contact photo a gloved middle finger in front of a grinning face.

 

Considers, hesitates.

 

The dial tone rings out once, twice. 

Three times before it disconnects abruptly, leaving him sitting there in silence once more.

 

 

He stops calling every week.

**Author's Note:**

> * is a direct quote from [Mercs'](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercs/pseuds/Mercs) story ["too much"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9341327), set in the same universe.


End file.
